


the run and go

by thereigatesquire



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, M/M, Physical Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, a little bit of university at the beginning, also gave me a chance to add in some of my personal thoughts on the play, anyway onto the real tags:, because you can't read hamlet without having to make decisions, but it really follows the plot of hamlet and shows hamlet/horatio in between the main scenes, it's too ambiguous, no beta we die like members of the danish court, obviously main character death 'cause have you even read the play??, some ros&guil cameos, tragic danish boyfriends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24299509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereigatesquire/pseuds/thereigatesquire
Summary: Hamlet returns to Elsinore upon receiving news of his father's death, but there are many demons awaiting him there. He can't take them on his own--can Horatio help him? (based off of Twenty One Pilot's "The Run and Go")
Relationships: Hamlet/Horatio (Hamlet)
Kudos: 45





	1. I can't take them on my own, my own

**Author's Note:**

> binary-bird's spotify playlist "This is I, Hamlet the Dane" is absolutely amazing and you should totally check it out. Anyway, "The Run and Go" is on there and it is 100% about Hamlet so this is based off some of the lines from it. I played with the dialogue and perspectives a bit in this fic, so let me know what you think! (also I can't believe I've written R&G fics but not actually Hamlet)

**Horatio**

Hamlet had departed suddenly from Wittenberg. In fact, the Danish prince had fled so abruptly that when Horatio made his customary morning walk across campus to wake Hamlet in his private rooms, he thought he had made a wrong turn somewhere, for the room was as barren as a playhouse in times of plague.

It took Horatio a good bit of time to figure out where exactly Hamlet had gone. Of course, everyone knew that the Danish royal family resided in Elsinore, but Hamlet was not one to return home if he could avoid it, and, in addition, he’d been known to take impulsive trips across the continent to far-flung locales. Horatio finally wheedled out of Wittenberg’s postmaster that Hamlet had received a letter from Elsinore, which in turn brought him to the local gossip in an attempt to glean what news could have prompted the prince’s flight.

...

They met in the tavern less-frequented by university scholars. “I do indeed know what happened in Denmark,” the shadowy rumourmonger said. Horatio didn’t know his name, and it didn’t really matter, so long as he had information. The tavern was loud and rowdy, and Horatio had to lean in close to hear the busybody’s words. “But I don’t feel like giving the information away just like  _ that-- _ ” he snapped, “You’ll have to do something for me.”

“What may that be?” Horatio asked skeptically.

The gossip made sounds akin to those one would make when exaggerating one’s thought process. “You could buy me a drink?”

Horatio sighed. He had already bought a drink so that he could sit and wait at one of the tavern’s tables, and he really didn’t have enough money to spare for a second. “Thou art sure? There is nothing else?”

A smirk slowly spread across the prattler’s partially-obscured countenance. “You could give me a kiss.”

Horatio started, appalled. “W-What? Well, I never--”

“Oh, save it,” the gossip cut in. “I know you do it with your precious Prince Hamlet often enough.”

Horatio whirled his head around the tavern to see if anyone had overheard them, but the ruckus seemed to have saved his dignity. At the nearest table sat a pair of courtiers who were too busy betting on flipped coins to pay any attention to Horatio’s business. He turned back and levelled his stoniest stare at the busybody. “That is none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it is,” the rumourmonger replied.

Horatio stared him down for a tense moment, then sighed and stood to go purchase a drink. When he returned, he thudded the tankard down in front of the gossip none-too-gently. “Who  _ art  _ thou? How dost thou know so much about people’s private affairs?”

The gossip smiled over the rim of his mug. “I’m a Tragedian,” he said with a verbal flourish. “I travel the land and make it my business to know what happens…” he paused, then added suggestively, “... _ offstage _ .”

Horatio didn’t know how to respond to the Tragedian’s poorly-disguised innuendo, so they sat in silence until the Tragedian finished his drink.

“Rumour has it,” the Tragedian finally said, “that Old King Hamlet--mayhissoulrestinpeace--kicked the bucket under less-than-reputable circumstances, and his brother has seized the throne  _ and  _ the queen. Quite a story of love and blood, isn’t it?”

“King Hamlet is dead?” Horatio repeated in shock. The Tragedian nodded in false solemnity. Horatio stood shakily, his heart fallen to the pit of his stomach, and rushed out of the tavern to pack up his few belongings.

...

**Hamlet**

The first emotion Hamlet had experienced upon reading the messenger’s letter informing him of his father’s death had been unidentifiable. Or, perhaps it was identifiable, and Hamlet didn’t want to examine it. His second emotion was sadness, as any good son’s should have been. Of course, there were innumerable other feelings broiling just below the surface, as there always were, but Hamlet pushed them down, as he always did. 

He and some servants gathered up his possessions and departed at once for Denmark. As they left Wittenberg’s campus in the cover of night, Hamlet debated with himself whether to confide in Horatio. On one hand, Hamlet knew in all reality he couldn’t manage without him. On the other, he didn’t want to drag him to the prison that was Elsinore’s royal court. He knew the demons that (figuratively) roamed his childhood home, and in all honesty, he hated the person he became when he returned. So he decided to forgo the nighttime call and sneak away, for Horatio’s own good. But it didn't sit well with him.

**Horatio**

It was no love of the Danish king that caused Horatio to feel shock at the king’s death, but instead, concern for the prince. Horatio knew the son’s relationship to his father was fraught, as much as Hamlet tried to deny it. Why else would the king not name his only child--and a son at that--as the heir to the throne? It’s true that Denmark had some odd sort of voting system, but the monarch’s word still counted for something, and yet no word of filial endorsement had ever passed the king’s lips. Also, whispers of the Danish monarch’s brutality in battle and perhaps less-than-reputable tactics had spread insidiously; for years, there had been pervasive rumours of the king’s hollow victory over Old Fortinbras of Norway. But it was none of the well-known reasons that clued Horatio into Hamlet’s rocky familial relationships. He thought back to a day in their first year of university, the day they returned from the winter holiday: the day that Horatio decided he would stay at his prince’s side 'til death did them part.

...

Horatio had decided to swing by the university’s kitchens before going to see his much-missed lord. Two mugs of steamed milk in hand, he gingerly picked his way across the still-snowy campus and rapped on the door to Hamlet’s rooms, then entered without pausing. A voice--Hamlet’s--cried out with some unintelligible noise that simultaneously conveyed distress and disapproval, but the room was dimly-lit and Horatio couldn’t really tell what was happening, so he set the mugs on an entry-way table and fumbled for the curtains. When he’d pulled them back, he was grateful he’d set the mugs down, or else he would have dropped them in horror. “My lord!”

Hamlet was sitting at the foot of his bed. His pale face was marred by an ink-dark bruise that bled from one high cheekbone to the bridge of his Scandinavian nose and encircled his eye. “Why dost thou look on me this way, fellow scholar?” he asked, voice dripping with black sarcasm.

Horatio eyed the rest of him quickly. He saw another bruise on his wrist, before Hamlet moved to cover it with a sleeve. “I-I know not what to say, my lord.”

Hamlet sighed. “I told thee to withhold the loathsome title. ‘Tis not to my liking.” He slid off the bed and moved as if to stretch, before wincing and drawing his arms back close to his body.

Horatio moved towards him in concern. “My lo--” He caught himself, “--Hamlet, what is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He strided, though a bit gingerly, across the room in the direction of the washroom.

“Thou liest, my prince.”

Hamlet sighed again--a pastime of his. “I was...waylaid by a band of ruffians whilst returning from Elsinore.” He made as if to embellish his clearly-fabricated story with a flourish, but winced and stopped mid-motion.

Horatio was hurt by his friend’s reluctance to tell the truth. He said quietly, “Hamlet, thou must know thou can tell me anything.”

Hamlet was quiet for a minute, his arresting gaze fixed on Horatio. Finally, he conceded, “I never mean to offend you, Horatio.” He slowly took off the travelling doublet he was wearing, and gestured towards himself in a weary fashion.

Horatio gasped, but stifled it with a hand to the mouth. More bruises--clearly the work of a large, rough hand--discolored the prince’s torso. “--My lord…” He trailed off, at a loss.

Hamlet laughed darkly. “‘Tis nothing.”

“But it’s not.”

“I say it is!”

Horatio thought for a moment about who could inflict such harm on the prince of a nation, then asked hesitantly, “Is...this,” he gestured at the violent marks on Hamlet, “from...your father, my lord?”

Hamlet’s stormy gaze gave him all the answer he needed. “I told thee not to use that title!” He stalked into the washroom and slammed the door behind him.

After time had passed, and Horatio and Hamlet found a quiet moment to sit on the cold banks of the Elbe River, Horatio leaned in close to his prince and said, “Personally, I intend on staying here in Wittenberg for all of our future holidays.”

Hamlet shook his head, exasperated at his loyal friend’s thinly-hidden attempt to help, but added, “And I do as well.”

…


	2. Oh, I'm not the one you know, you know

**Hamlet**

As soon as he crossed the border into Denmark, familiar feelings wash up within him. “Trapped”--along with “persecuted” and “under siege”--was the word that best described his emotional state when he returned to his home. He knew that was abnormal, but it was also all he’d ever known.

He looked at his father’s body lying in the coffin. That feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge rose up in him again, and he tried to tamp it down.

He saw the wedding. He couldn’t stand it: his absent mother, choosing to ignore her suffering son for a visibly oily uncle. Her lack of grievance, his false charm and plays at parenting.

“Think of us as of a father.” The touching. The spying. The insidious insults. “‘Tis unmanly grief.” The glittering deceit of the court. The invasions into his life. He couldn’t take them on his own.

**Horatio**

Horatio rode as fast as he could, but it still took him days to get to Denmark. It was night when he arrived, and an eerie sense of shuttered windows and foggy figures lay across the castle grounds. A voice called out to him as he approached the gates. “Who’s there?”

“A friend of the prince!”

A guardsman approached him out of the darkness and eyed his clothing and belongings. “A scholar _ ,  _ I presume?”

“Aye, sir.”

The guard ushered him towards him. “Good, we have need of a scholar. Come with me.”

“I cannot; I have to see Ham--the prince.”

“That can wait. The lord is most likely asleep at this hour. Come, come! Thou must see what I will reveal to thee.

Horatio sighed, but it appeared he would not be able to wheedle his way out of this. His very heart thrummed with concern for his prince, but he allowed himself to be led through the night, to the battlements.

…

Some time later, he finally entered the Danish castle. He--the guards trailing a ways behind him-- approached a throne room. He peeked through a grand oak door, and saw Hamlet, but not as he had seen him before.

Hamlet was sunk to his knees in the middle of the empty, stone room. Horatio heard him falter out, “But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue,” before his head sunk into his hands and his narrow shoulders shook.

The Hamlet that Wittenberg knew was dynamic. He could be found traipsing along the top of high garden walls, arms whirling to keep his balance. He could be found in debate halls, coldly watching his opponent before launching into an eloquent but brutal rebuttal. He could be found sitting at night in a tower’s window, shouting his poetry to the indifferent moon.

The Hamlet that Horatio knew was more volatile. He was a mercurial pendulum, one moment full of boundless energy and the next sprawled melodramatically across a fainting couch. He was like the brilliant variable stars that Horatio had started to study in Wittenberg: he would whirl from blinding incandescence to dim-red sulk and back again, in an everlasting dance of the cosmos, and Horatio was always afraid he’d burn himself out. But he never cried.

This Hamlet, the Hamlet of Elsinore, was not the one that Horatio knew, or Wittenberg knew, or anyone save the Danish royal family knew. And Horatio didn’t know what to do.

By now, however, the guards had caught up, and Horatio knew Hamlet wouldn’t want to be seen so vulnerable, so he called out his most vague and inoffensive greeting: “Hail to your lordship!”

He saw Hamlet start and turn away from the doorway, visibly collecting himself. “I am glad to see you well,” he said. A vague answer for a vague greeting.

Then, he turned around. Horatio didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry at the expression that bloomed on Hamlet’s countenance; he had never seen an aspect change so quickly from despair to overjoyous relief. “Horatio!” The prince ran--actually ran--to Horatio and flung himself into his arms, sparing no thought for the present company. With his head buried in Horatio’s chest, he added, “Or I do forget  _ myself _ .”

Horatio’s heart was breaking. His voice cracked as he quipped, “The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.”

To his relief, Hamlet understood the weak attempt at humour and played along: “Sir, my good friend, I’ll change that name with you.” His eyes shone with gratitude when he looked up and asked, “And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?” before realizing that they were not alone and quickly taking a step back and addressing Marcellus. Horatio could clearly see the walls Hamlet was constructing in his mind, and he sighed, vowing to talk with Hamlet alone after this conversation had played itself out.

…

“Hamlet!” Horatio had wandered the castle a bit--lost--trying to find his prince. He’d stumbled into a room where a father was having some oddly intense discussion with his daughter and son, but luckily they didn’t notice him. He finally walked up a staircase he’d already passed twice before and tripped right into Hamlet’s bedchambers. The aforementioned prince was standing at a tall, narrow window and looking out over the stormy Baltic Sea, his black mourning cloak wrapped tight around him. He didn’t respond.

“My prince,” Horatio tried, stammering.

Hamlet angled his head towards Horatio. His voice was lively but his eyes were flat and despondent as he said, “My good Horatio!” 

“Thou hast no need to pretend with me, Hamlet.”

Hamlet turned fully around, deflated, and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the stone floor. Horatio moved to sit beside him.

“Is it...is it thy mother’s marriage that hast put thee out of sorts, my prince?”

“No! Or, yes,” Hamlet words were at once forceful but insubstantial. “I-I know not.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms. Horatio could make out his mumbled speech as he said, “He was a goodly king.”

Despite being an apparent non sequitur, Horatio knew all along that this conversation would end up here. “It is normal to mourn, my prince.”

“But I do not mourn!” Hamlet looked shocked at his own outburst, and he backtracked, “Well, I do, but not purely, not as a good son should! There are...there are other...emotions, as well.”

“That is normal too, my prince,” Horatio answered softly, placing an arm around the hunched shoulders of the young Dane.

Hamlet looked up at Horatio, appalled. “No, it is not! I have never been fit to be the son of a king, and I will be!”

Horatio felt like crying, but he couldn’t do that, not now. “And who told you were not fit to be a prince?”

Hamlet immediately opened his mouth, then paused and closed it, before ducking his gaze and murmuring, “My father.” He didn’t speak again for a while.

Horatio sat in silence with Hamlet for a period, before ever quietly adding, “I think thou art as good a prince as any could hope to be.”

Hamlet let slip the smallest of laughs, and tucked his head into the space between Horatio’s shoulder and neck. “And thou art better a friend than any could wish to find.”

...

**Author's Note:**

> (my tumblr is the exact same as my ao3 username, soooo)


End file.
